


take up the rhythm

by enzhe



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Aged-Up Characters, Anal Sex, Consensual spanking, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff and Smut, Harley and Peter are good boyfriends, Idiots in Love, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Smut, sexual spanking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-03
Updated: 2019-08-03
Packaged: 2020-07-30 05:20:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20091919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enzhe/pseuds/enzhe
Summary: Harley's attempt to multi-task studying and cuddling with Peter leading to more sex than studying isn't exactly unexpected, but how it gets there kinda is.





	take up the rhythm

**Author's Note:**

> Trying my hand at smut, and so nervous about it I made a new pseud. And then found out that both of my pseuds will show. I give up.
> 
> Happy Parkner week! This doesn't fit any of the prompts but...here it is.
> 
> (mind the tags!)

It starts on a lazy weekend afternoon, and entirely by accident. They’ve had breakfast, and sex (slow tender careful sex, _I love you Peter_ on every exhale because Harley doesn’t know what happened on patrol last night, there are no physical marks to tell what Peter won’t—Harley checked thoroughly—but Peter wouldn’t let go of him, and cried in his sleep, and all Harley could do was make sure he woke up in an absolute certainty of love.) Now they’re reading.

Well, Harley’s reading. They’re in their last semester of undergrad, and his capstone write-up is only 60% done, and he has a shit-ton of reading to do if he’s going to get all the references he needs, so as much as he wanted to give in to Peter’s suggestion of a bingeing a low-drama nature show of Harley’s choice (“just no people, Harls, I can’t with people today”), he made the responsible choice, put on his reading glasses, and settled down to get shit done.

On the bed, because even if he couldn’t fulfill Peter’s _Blue Planet_ dreams today, he could hold him while he read or napped or scrolled on his phone—whatever he wanted, so long as Harley could focus on his own shit for a bit. He promises both of them a reward if he gets enough done—internally, so as not to set up expectations and then possibly let Peter down—and things are going fine. He’s in the zone, speed-reading very effectively, has found and marked a couple promising models to come back to later; has his favorite study soundtracks pumping through his earbuds, keeping the more distractible part of his brain occupied. Until it’s suddenly very, very distracted, and Harley can’t even blame it, even as he spins maddeningly from his mental engineering-only trench and comes crashing into painful awareness of his very favorite distraction: Peter’s dick.

Peter hasn’t moved. He’s sprawled mostly-on-top of Harley, doesn’t even look to be entirely conscious, but whether he’s sleep-dreaming or day-dreaming, that must be a hell of a good dream, judging by what’s pressing insistently into Harley’s thigh.

“Better be me you’re imagining, darlin’,” Harley says, soft and light—calm, joking—but the petty, primal, possessive part of him means it. A little too much.

Peter hums incoherently—shivers a little, must jar into some less-gentle level of awareness, because he’s suddenly tense—blushing violently, and trying to hide it by smothering his face in Harley’s neck. He mumbles something.

“What’s that, darlin’?”

Peter’s face comes up, blazing red, still sleepy, almost _pouty_. “I said ‘felt good.’ Why’d you stop?”

Well, Harley’s confused, and certainly not getting even a single braincell to focus back on nanocircuits until he gets to the bottom of this. “Stop what?“

“Your hand.” And Peter’s hiding his face again.

“My…hand?” Feeling a bit like an idiot, Harley looks at his hands. Right hand’s holding the Starkpad, of course, and left hand’s…on Peter’s ass. He gives an experimental pat. “Like this?” He was tapping along to his music, he realizes.

Peter moans.

Huh.

_Fascinating._

He takes up the rhythm again, and seconds in Peter’s eyes softly close again, tension melting, molded warm and easy against him…except his dick, which must be _aching_ by now. Harley’s feeling a bit of a sympathetic throb himself.

Hmmm. _Hypothesis formed. Trial commenced._

Starkpad abandoned, Harley sets forth on a new scientific mission.

Every time his hand stills, rests lazy and warm on the perfect curve of Peter’s bottom, he gets two or three seconds of acceptance before a grumpy hum or—as the experiment continues, need-tinged whine—rumbles out of Peter, urging him to continue. It’s…adorable. Simple and warm and small and unaccountably arousing, and Harley’s going to have to switch things up a bit if he’s going to have the presence of mind to continue his little experiment. With a whispered comfort-plus-apology, he wraps both arms around his sleepy Peter, and with a grunt of effort, shifts him to the side so he can roll out from under him. Bleary eyes blink open, a hand reaches, fists in his shirt—

“Noooo,” complains Peter. “Can’t you—don’t leave—”

“Shh, not leaving,” he murmurs, closing gentle fingers around the fist holding him. “Just wanna try something. If I’m right, you’ll like it. You’ll let me know if you don’t, right?”

“Mm-hmm.” There’s a hitch in Peter’s breath, a hint of excitement. He lets go, tucks his hands under his chest, watches Harley through desire-dark, barely-open eyes.

“That’s good, baby.” His voice rasps a bit, catches on saliva pooling in his mouth. He settles into position carefully, knees sinking into the mattress alongside Peter’s prone form. Slides his left hand up Peter’s back, slow and soothing—massages his neck, threads up into his curls, give the tiny tugs he knows Peter loves—brings his right hand down on a Peter’s ass. Not fast, not hard enough to hurt—just steady, firm—

“_Hahh—_” Peter’s eyes fly open, lips part—

_Smack._

He thinks the rhythm was part of it, it’s important—he follows the beat, watching Peter so so carefully, ready for any sign to stop—_smack-smack-smack-smack._

Peter’s eyes roll up, slide shut. He brings a fist up to his mouth, takes a finger in his teeth, bites down—_fuck. Keep hold of yourself, Keener—focus, focus focus focus—_ “Peter? Feeling good?”

Peter slits his eyes open, pulls his finger out of his mouth, lips quirk—“Hhh—yeah, yeah—Harley?”

Harley’s hand stills. “Yes?”

Peter’s smothering his face again. Can’t hide the blush shading all the way up his ears, though, even as he mumbles into the mattress. “I like it,” he manages, a few tries in. “I want…”

“You’re allowed to want anything, Peter.”

For a moment Peter doesn’t breathe. Stays perfectly still, facedown on their sheets. When he turns his head, the way he looks at Harley—like he’s seeing something amazing, something infinitely precious—steals a beat from Harley’s heart, all the breath in his lungs, whatever words were waiting on his tongue.

“Want more,” Peter whispers. “Then…you. Please. Please, Harley.”

Harley makes some sort of noise. Some sort of groan. _Anything,_ it means. _I’ll give you anything, Peter Parker._ He tries to remember what he was going to try next. He was going to—experiment, catalogue Peter’s reactions and—

Peter’s canting his hips up, slipping his hands into the waistband of his sweats—pushes everything down, offering a bare bottom, pert and round and flushed pink from the rhythm of Harley’s hands.

“Harley,” he whispers, and Harley jolts. Everything in his head has blanked white. Probably because there’s no blood left in that part of his body. It’s kind of frustrating how easily Peter turns him on, how hard he’s always had to work for control, especially when they first started exploring sex—but there’s something about this, about the unexpected sexual response and utter vulnerability Peter’s letting him in on that’s driving him absolutely crazy. “Can you…?”

Harley swallows. Again. Again. “Yeah,” he whispers. “Yeah, I got you, babe. Talk to me, okay? Talk me through it—”

“Mmmm. Like you mean it—”

_Smack._

“Yes—_yes—_”

_Smack._

“C’mon, you can go harder than that,” Peter teases. Then gasps as Harley follows through, switching hands as his palm starts to sting, speeds up the rhythm—Peter’s stuffing his fist in his mouth again, mumbling Harley’s name around bitten fingers—

“_Unnghhh—yes—Harley, I—Ha-harley, Harley, Harley—_”

Peter’s bottom is red now, the skin swollen, shuddering at the featherlight touches Harley slows to skim over desperately arched buttocks. “Do you want me to keep going, Peter? Tell me what you want, baby—”

“You,” Peter gasps. “You, inside—I—need you—need—”

“Yes,” promises Harley, breathless with relief. His shorts are wet, tented and straining. He flops over Peter’s back to reach their nightstand drawer, careful not to brush against bare, red, tender skin. Feels fluttering licks and kisses to the fingers braced near Peter’s mouth as he scoops up lube and condom. Sits back on his heels, trying to pull together a coherent _next_. He wants—he wants Peter, so badly it hurts in a whole lot of ways, but it seems wrong to continue like this, with all their clothes on except where Peter’s pants are pushed abruptly down. He wants to feel all of Peter against all of him. “Can I undress you, Peter? Please, darlin’?”

“Yep, just don’t expect me to be much help,” Peter says, that _I’m-the-luckiest-because-I’m-looking-at-you_ warmth to his eyes again, tilting his lips. It’s the most coherent he’s been through all of this, but the way his pupils swallow his irises, the way he squirms a little on the bed, rubbing into the sheets and catching himself—he’s on the same desperate edge Harley’s tipping over. “’N you gotta keep me warm…”

“I got you.” Harley’s a little slow because he needs to be gentle-gentle-gentle, sliding soft material up Peter’s back, fingertips skimming Peter’s sides, raising goosebumps as he goes. Peter does help with getting his arms out of his hoodie sleeves, just a little—grunting helplessly as the movement shifts his erection against the sheets. His hair is pulled on end as Harley slips his t-shirt and hoodie over his head, and Harley pauses to comb his fingers through it. Peter moans. He’s growing more vocal with every second, not working as hard to stop the twitches of his hips, rutting into the sheets—

_Smack._

“Not yet,” Harley says sternly. Peter whines, pushes up into the next spanking—

_Smack—smack—smack—_

“Don’t stop, don’t stop—”

Bare arms reach out, fist sheets, muscles taut, tendons showing—Peter is—_beautiful—smack—smack—smack—_

The next contact is suddenly soft, a barely-there touch that turns into careful fingers pressing along either side of the soft cleft where cheeks meet, gently parting as Peter gasps, rolls his face to smother a cry in the mattress. His legs spread, helping as Harley holds him open. It’s difficult to snap open the lube one-handed, but Harley manages, using a knee to press a dollop into his free hand, which he closes, willing it to warm quickly. “You’re doing so good, Peter,” he praises, so soft it’s barely spoken. By the way Peter trembles, his senses are cranked high. “You’re so beautiful. You’re going to take this without a sound, unless you want a smack. That good, darlin’? You ready for me?”

“Yeah,” breathes Peter. “Harley, _hurry_—_ah—_”

_Smack. Smack._

Peter’s breath shudders. He grabs a fistful of sheet, stuffs it in his mouth. Harley waits, battling his own shattering self-control. When Peter stays silent, he pauses to drop kisses on his bottom, the inflamed skin hot to his lips. Uses careful fingers to part rosy buttocks again, opens his free hand—smooths warmed lube all the down, pressing lightly on the pucker but not stopping until he’s caressing the shivering, velvet-soft skin at the base of Peter’s balls. He reaches further, cups them, slightly rolls them, immediately withdraws to give two sharp spanks when Peter cries out. He can’t keep this game up, though—Peter won’t last. Neither will he.

“I love you, Peter,” he whispers. Shudders at the raw need in his own voice. Slides a lube-coated finger over Peter’s anus, swirling concentric circles around contracting skin. “I love everything about you, I love how you surprise me, I love you, I love that you’re _mine—_” pushes in.

“_Harley—_”

_Smack._

_“Yes—nnnh—”_

Something about the rhythm—soft now, not unlike the unwitting tapping-along-to-music that started all this—clearly relaxes Peter, and he pushes back against Harley’s finger, demanding faster, demanding _more._

“Don’t push yourself, baby—”

“Need—_Haaa—Har—_”

Tight heat opens, eases, and Harley scrambles to get the condom open, roll it on. Peter twists a bit to look back at him, a hungry, mischievous pull to his lips as he says clearly: “Any time now, Harls—”

_Smack._ And Peter’s entire body shudders.

“OH—Harley, I’m—” the rest is almost a scream, smothered against the mattress.

They fit together. Relief and need roll through Harley in great welling waves, and he falls forward onto his elbows, flushed hot all along Peter’s goose-bumped, shivering skin. Kisses the base of Peter’s neck, again and again until kisses turn into soft bites, until he holds the place where Peter’s neck curves into shoulder in his mouth, and feels Peter relax under him. Around him. Feels Peter’s lungs working against his: soft pants, desperate pleas. The angle is—not quite right—he reaches for all his self-control, holds everything desperately still except for the arm that extends, gropes blindly for a pillow. Finds one, and he urges Peter’s hips up with his, slips the pillow under Peter’s shuddering belly. Leans enough weight on one elbow to reach beneath both of them one more time, circle Peter’s straining cock with soft, cautious fingers. Pets the weeping tip, slides—

Peter cries out, bucks against him, and the angle must be fixed because his shout shoots up an octave, keens—maybe words, maybe just _Harley._

And Harley’s _gone_. The last threads of self control snapped entirely; he’s moving without will, nothing but _Peter_ and impossibly building pressure-pleasure in all of him.

It’s a new rhythm, hips to bruise-blushed buttocks, Peter crying out and Harley surging forward and it’s fast and unsteady and then they’re both gone, shaking apart into and over each other.

Harley floats back into a place where thoughts come in words other than _Peter_. Peter is still under him. Still shaking, seconds of aftershocks then seconds of stillness then shuddering again—eyes fully shut, lips parted, drooling a little. Harley has just enough presence of mind to tumble off of him, tuck the half of blankets-and-sheets Peter’s not lying on over and around him, then sprawls naked across the equally-naked half of the bed. Falls asleep between one mind-blown breath and the next.

He wakes to a kiss on the cheek, a whispered _I’m going to clean you up now, babe_, then the swirl of a warm wet washcloth as Peter does exactly that. Once he gets his eyes cracked open far enough to look, he sees that Peter is fully dressed—in a fresh set of sweats, hair damp and extra-curly from a shower. He’s beautiful.

Harley tells him so.

“You’re not bad yourself,” Peter teases, dropping a kiss to the bit of Harley’s hip he’s just wiped clean. It’s Harley’s turn to shiver, feel all his tiny hairs stand up with goosebumps, and Peter looks up at him in concern. “You wanna get dressed, Harls? Or I could just tuck you in—the sheets are a bit of a mess though—”

“I was supposed to be studying,” Harley mumbles. He’s only now remembering.

Peter turns away a bit, but it doesn’t hide the return of the blush. “Sorry ‘bout that.” He doesn’t sound very repentant, and Harley grins. Until enough worry pushes onto his tongue.

“I didn’t hurt you? How’s your—”

“My butt?” Peter says, mouth quirking up. He turns and tugs down his sweats a bit, apparently set on proving his point by mooning Harley. “Quite happy in the afterglow, as you can see. Shower did sting a bit.” He doesn’t seem to be anything less than gleeful about that. Probably thanks to certain superpowers, the half-moons of his ass are already less pink than his still-blushing face. “Now c’mon, you’ll catch cold.”

Harley’s limp and slow and ends up being carried into the shower, Peter helping himself to his own sharp swat at Harley's ass to get him going. By the time Harley comes out, Peter’s sitting on a freshly made bed, clearly waiting for him. He’s picking at his fingers. Stands up as Harley shuts the bathroom door behind him.

“Whatever your anxiety’s telling you, don’t listen to it,” Harley says softly, taking swift small steps to where there’s no space left between them. Wraps his arms all the way around Peter, pulls him in, nuzzles into his hair. “That was really good sex. Wouldn’t matter if it wasn’t. But it was. I love you. I love you.”

Peter’s face tilts up to his, accepts his kisses with an open-hungry mouth. “I don’t deserve you,” he says quietly.

“That’s my line.“

“I love you.”

“I know.”

“Sorry I’m a—“

“Do _not_ say ‘freak’, Peter Parker.”

Wide brown eyes meet Harley's over the hand Harley holds to Peter’s mouth. This is an old argument.

Harley will argue it as many times as he needs to. For as many years as he gets to.

“You can want whatever you want, Peter Parker.”

He takes his hand away.

“Even if it’s you?”

“Especially if it’s me.”

“Good,” says Peter.

And it is.


End file.
